There had been no sign of harm beyond a few already-healing cuts and slices from the battle itself. Nothing at all beyond a sleeping, tired woman.
Who held the might of a god within her veins.
Yrene had then inspected Prince Rowan, who looked in far worse shape, a sizable gash snaking down his thigh. But he’d waved her off, claiming he’d come too near a burnout, and just needed to rest as well.
So Yrene had left them, only to tend to another.
To Lorcan, whose injuries … Yrene had needed to summon Hafiza to help her with some of it. To lend her power, since Yrene’s had been so depleted.
The unconscious warrior, who had apparently tumbled right off Farasha as he and Elide had passed through the gates, didn’t so much as stir while they worked on him.
That had been hours ago. Days ago, it felt.
Yes, she needed to rest.
Yrene aimed for the water station in the back of the hall, her mouth dry as paper. Some water, some food, and perhaps a nap. Then she’d be ready to work again.
But a horn, clear and bright, blared from outside.
Everyone halted—then rushed to the windows. Yrene’s smile grew as she, too, found a place to peek out over the battlefield.
To where the rest of the khagan’s army, Prince Kashin at its front, marched toward them.
Thank the gods. Everyone in the hall muttered similar words.
From the keep, an answering horn sang its welcome.
Not just one army had been spared here today, Yrene realized as she turned back to the water station. If that wave had reached Kashin …
Lucky. They had all been so, so very lucky.
Yet Yrene wondered how long that luck would last.
If it would see them through the brutal march northward, and to the walls of Orynth itself.
Lorcan let out a low groan as he surfaced from the warm, heavy embrace of darkness.
“You are one lucky bastard.”
Too soon. Too damn soon after hovering near death to hear Fenrys’s drawl.
Lorcan cracked open an eye, finding himself lying on a cot in a narrow chamber. A lone candle illuminated the space, dancing in the golden hair of the Fae warrior who sat in a wooden chair at the foot of his bed.
Fenrys’s smirk was a slash of white. “You’ve been out for a day. I drew the short stick and had to look after you.”
A lie. For whatever reason, Fenrys had chosen to be here.
Lorcan shifted his body—slightly.
No hint of pain beyond a dull throb down his back and tight pull across his stomach. He managed to lift his head enough to rip away the heavy wool blanket covering his naked body. Where he’d been able to see his insides, only a thick red scar remained.
Lorcan thumped his head back on the pillow. “Elide.” Her name was a rasp on his tongue.
The last he remembered, they’d ridden through the gates, Aelin Galathynius’s unholy power spent. Then oblivion had swept in.
“Helping with the healing in the Great Hall,” Fenrys said, stretching out his legs before him.
Lorcan closed his eyes, something tight in his chest easing.
“Well, since you’re not dead,” Fenrys began, but Lorcan was already asleep.
Lorcan awoke later. Hours, days, he didn’t know.
The candle was still burning on the narrow windowsill, down to its base. Hours, then. Unless he’d slept so long they’d replaced the candle altogether.
He didn’t care. Not when the dim light revealed the delicate woman lying facedown on the end of his cot, the lower half of her body still on the wooden chair where Fenrys had been. Her arms cradled her head, one outstretched toward him. Reaching for his hand, mere inches from hers.
Elide.
Her dark hair spilled across the blanket, across his shins, veiling much of her face.
Wincing at the lingering ache in his body, Lorcan stretched his arm just enough to touch her fingers.
They were cold, their tips so much smaller than his. They contracted, pulling away as she sucked in a sharp, awakening breath.
Lorcan savored every feature as she grimaced at a crick in her neck. But her eyes settled on him.
She went still as she found him staring at her, awake and utterly in awe of the woman who had ridden through hell to find him …
Tired. She looked spent, yet her chin remained unbowed.
Lorcan had no words. He’d given her everything on the back of that horse anyway.
But Elide asked, “How do you feel?”
Aching. Exhausted. Yet finding her sitting at his bedside … “Alive,” he said, and meant it.
Her face remained unreadable, even as her eyes dipped to his body. The blanket had slid down enough to reveal most of his torso, though it still hid the scarred-over wound in his abdomen. Yet he’d never felt so keenly naked.
It was an effort to keep his breathing steady beneath her sharp-eyed gaze. “Yrene said you would have died, if they hadn’t gotten to you when they did.”
“I would have died,” he said, voice like gravel, “if you hadn’t braved hell to find me.”
Her gaze lifted to his. “I made you a promise.”
“So you said.”
Was that a hint of color stealing across her pale cheeks? But she didn’t balk. “You said some interesting things, too.”
Lorcan tried to sit up, but his body gave a burst of pain in protest.
Elide explained, “Yrene warned that though the wounds are healed, some soreness will linger.”
Lorcan gritted his teeth around the sharp stab in his back, his stomach. He managed to get onto his elbows, and deemed that progress enough. “It’s been a while since I was so gravely injured. I’d forgotten what an inconvenience it is.”
A faint smile tugged on her mouth.
His heart halted. The first smile she had given him in months and months. Since that day on the ship, when he’d touched her hand as they’d swayed in their hammocks.
Her smile faded, but the color on her cheeks lingered. “Did you mean it? What you said.”
He held her stare. Let some inner wall within him come crumbling down. Only for her. For this sharp-eyed, cunning little liar who had slipped through every defense and ironclad rule he’d ever made for himself. He let her see that in his face. Let her see all of it, as no one had ever done before. “Yes.”
Her mouth tightened, but not in displeasure.
So Lorcan said softly, “I meant every word.” His heart thundered, so wildly it was a wonder she couldn’t hear it. “And I will until the day I fade into the Afterworld.”
Lorcan didn’t breathe as Elide gently reached out her hand. And interlaced their fingers. “I love you,” she whispered.
He was glad he was lying down. The words would have knocked him to his knees. Even now, he was half inclined to bow before her, the true owner of his ancient, wicked heart.
“I have loved you,” she went on, “from the moment you came to fight for me against Vernon and the ilken.” The light in her eyes stole his breath. “And when I heard you were somewhere on that battlefield, the only thing I wanted was to be able to tell you that. It was the only thing that mattered.”
Once, he might have scoffed. Declared that far bigger things mattered, in this war especially. And yet the hand grasping his … He’d never known anything more precious.
Lorcan ran his thumb over the back of her hand. “I am sorry, Elide. For all of it.”
“I know,” she said softly, and no regret or hurt dimmed her face. Only clear, unwavering calm shone there. The face of the mighty lady she was growing into, and had already become, and who would rule Perranth with wisdom in one hand and compassion in the other.
They stared at each other for minutes. For a blessed eternity.
Then Elide untangled their hands and rose. “I should return to help Yrene.”
Lorcan caught her hand again. “Stay.”
She arched a dark brow. “I’m only going to the Great Hall.”
Lorcan caressed his thumb over the back of her hand once more. “Stay,” he breathed.
For a heartbeat, he thought she’d say no, and was prepared to be fine with it, to accept these last few minutes as more of a gift than he’d deserved.
But then Elide sat on the edge of his cot, right beside his shoulder, and ran a hand through his hair. Lorcan closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, unable to stop the deep purr that rolled through his chest.